


Cross

by raelouise



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Blasphemy, Consensual Kink, D/s, M/M, PWP, Punishment, Recreational Drug Use, Smut, Tattoo Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:57:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raelouise/pseuds/raelouise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry does guilty well when he’s high. Harry does guilty well when he’s sober, too, but there’s something even softer about his angles when he has something in his veins. How it weighs him down like an anchor beneath the flat planes of his tummy. He folds in on himself until he seems to take up half of his usual space and his eyes are astounding, at a sad slant and almost black with his pupils seeping out into the green. Wanting to do anything other than pet it away would seem cruel if Zayn wasn’t acutely aware of the outline of Harry’s dick swelling through his jeans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cross

**Author's Note:**

> So. This is relies far more on porn than it does plot. I think this is the most smut-heavy piece I've written in this fandom so far, and although I have another far more plot-based piece in the works for these two [and more planned], have you seen them together? I _had_ to write this, just to cope with them.
> 
> Also worth nothing that as far as I'm concerned, within this verse, their discussion of kink within their relationship is something they've gone over and this is very consensual for both parties.
> 
> And a warning- there is some blaspheming kink in regards to Harry's cross tattoo.

“So. I like this,” Zayn hums, stray whispers of weed smoke escaping with his words. He lets them go and skates a gentle hand beneath Harry’s wrist. Lifts and tilts it so that he can get a good look at the little cross inked across from his thumb. Black strokes against the last of his tan- strange, really, because Zayn always thinks of Harry as sugar mouse white. The tattoo is sweet though, dainty where Harry’s hand is so boyishly big, “Nice choice, babe. You ready to share again, yet?”  
  
Harry is always especially pliant when he’s high- sleepy slow. Flush to Zayn’s side, with his wrist loosely dangling from Zayn’s palm, long fingers curling just so. He’s also especially selfish, sucking deep from their rolled-up cherry Rizla and then batting his lashes as though the hocus-pocus flutter of them will distract Zayn. Zayn has to give it to the boy- it’s not usually a plan that fails him. Not when his head tips back to the couch and his neck’s exposed, too. A constellation for Zayn’s dizzy gaze to trace: the first dotted star resting on the shelf of Harry’s collar bone, then up passed Harry’s throat, the cut of his jaw leading to a flurry of them at the curls licking against his ear.  
  
He’s wonderfully lovely, every inch of him, and now Zayn has the the inner half of his left hand to fall for, too. Like he’s never quite noticed how shallow the skin is over his tendons before, how they pull when his hand flexes. That map of veins that his drugged up heartbeat thrums through.  
  
He’s probably lovely enough to deserve the three quarters of the joint he always manages to stake a claim to, which is wildly unfair.  
  
“Harry. Please?”  
  
“Zayn. No.”  
  
“ _Haz_ , c’mon.”  
  
Honestly, Zayn could simply snatch the spliff back if he wanted. He could duck down and get at it where it rests between Harry’s lax fingers. There’s something about Harry’s pout of defiance though, that has Zayn letting the game linger for longer than it needs to. He wants to prod at Harry until he whines. Until his pink lips pull down as he hands the absolute lasts of the joint across with simultaneous demands for more affection, like he earned himself a reward.  
  
They can never quite decide who wins these things. If it’s a draw, or a loss on both sides; an abandoning of their dignity, or foreplay.  
  
“Roll another.”  
  
 “ _You_ roll another.”  
  
“Can’t do it as well as you, Zayn.”  
  
“You have very disobedient fingers is why, disobedient ‘cause they belong to you.”  
  
Harry pauses for a beat, with the spliff an inch from his lips and his eyes flashing beneath a hood of lash and lid, “Zayn, are you calling me naughty?”  
  
Zayn twitches, something about naughty on the rosebud of Harry’s lips- “The worst. Now hand it over.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“I’ll send you to sit in the corner.” Zayn threatens, eyes skipping between Harry and the far right of the room where the light from the lamp doesn’t quite spill. He entertains the idea of the other boy sat there cross-legged, nose to the wall, and grasps for some shred of hope that he doesn’t enjoy the image of it. He does, though- even when Harry deflates like a puppy who’s heard a sharp _no_ , blinking owlishly.  
  
“I thought you loved me!”  
  
Zayn _adores_ Harry- his saccharine soul and his deepest dimple, his tangled bed head and his thighs in dark denim- but he just shrugs. Sets his mouth into a pursed line of disappointment, “Yeah? And I thought you were a good boy. For me, at least.”  
  
At that, Harry huffs and makes a great ceremony of tucking the joint back between his lips, sullenly watching Zayn through the fraying-satin of his eyelashes as he does. There’s a pull between his eyebrows with it: surly creases pinching above his nose that Zayn wants to smooth out with the pad of his thumb. Or perhaps just press into with the blunt curve of his nail. He wants to cup Harry’s cheek- cup both and kiss a lesson of a bruise over the pout of his mouth.  
  
All too aware of Zayn studying him, Harry smokes up what’s left of the weed and then leans precariously from the couch to toss the end of it into the ash tray. He’s not far off taking a tumble, only needing his knee to slide out just a little for him to go, but for once, he doesn’t end up in an awkward heap. Zayn would admire his unexpected mastering of the art of balancing- if he wasn’t too busy muttering _brat_ with a click his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The palms of his hands itching with the want to do something- manhandle all of Harry’s lanky length, or slap the subtle curve of his arse. The thud would be quite satisfying.  
  
“What, you have more, don’t you?” Harry says- somewhere between begging to be punished and entirely unassuming innocence.  
  
Zayn just shakes his head, “Yeah. Not the point. You forgot your manners, Haz. I’m disappointed.”  
  
Harry does guilty well when he’s high. Harry does guilty well when he’s sober, too, but there’s something even softer about his angles when he has something in his veins. How it weighs him down like an anchor beneath the flat planes of his tummy. He folds in on himself until he seems to take up half of his usual space and his eyes are astounding, at a sad slant and almost black with his pupils seeping out into the green. Wanting to do anything other than pet it away would seem cruel if Zayn wasn’t acutely aware of the outline of Harry’s dick swelling through his jeans.    
  
“Are you sorry?” He asks him instead, settling back against the arm of the couch as he does- opening up a wider gap between them that makes Harry frown again. Beautifully, really. On the cusp of fragile. “C’mere.”  
  
Harry slides easily back into Zayn’s space, with his endless limbs wriggling over him and his open mouth pressing into his juncture between his neck and jaw. He’s heavy, but Zayn likes how solid he is; gets an arm around him to keep him close. Tucked in and fever warm.  
  
“Well, are you?” He prompts again and Harry nods dutifully; twists up a good chunk of Zayn’s over-washed t-shirt and rubs the knotted fabric with his thumb. He has his lip between his teeth Zayn knows, even if he can’t see. “Use your words, Harry, please.”  
  
“‘m sorry, Zayn.”  
  
They’ve never gotten this far before- or at least, if they’ve edged towards it they’ve let the scene dissolve into laugher and gotten each other off anyway. However, when Harry sits back- clutching cotton still- he gives Zayn such a look that Zayn couldn’t imagine not continuing now. The younger boy seems half-gone already, and it’s not just the weed like it would of been a few months back. It robs Zayn of a breath.  
  
“A-are you gonna teach me a lesson?”  
  
Zayn should, he knows, because the apology took time and Harry hadn’t heeded any of his prior warnings. It’s the exact workings of the thing that he’s not had a moment to figure out: the punishment that fits the crime, as it were.  
  
“You need to learn to share, is what I think,” He murmurs, mostly pondering aloud. Noting the brittle tremor in Harry’s breathing. “Which actually, you’re usually spectacularly good at it, but not tonight it seems. So...”  
  
“So?” Harry whispers, hanging on the edge of each of Zayn’s words and rolling his hips, too. His cock obvious and full now, no doubt bothering him, trapped in his jeans.  
  
“So,” Zayn smirks, threading his fingers through Harry’s and then gliding his hand from their touch to lift Harry’s arm- tender as always, but with a calculated flare in his dark eyes. It is the arm he had a hold on earlier, with the tattoo atop the index finger of the hand it belongs to; the two bold lines of it. “No sending you to sit in corners, just...”  
  
Harry echoes Zayn again- _just_ , a rumble up from his chest- and Zayn’s cock throbs in response to the obedience of him taking such measures to follow his lead. With his hips still moving too, his crotch seeking out some part of Zayn that he can rut against. Captivated, Zayn waits hopefully for a whine and offers Harry the salvation of his knuckles when it finally comes. Bunches his hand into a fist and skims it between the boy’s spread thighs, from his arse to his balls, to the shape of his shaft. It’s not much at all, but Harry keens brokenly. His neck snapping back and his whole body riding the merest ghost of friction.  
  
Zayn’s known Harry to be needy before [has had him begging in hotel elevators, beet red in the backs of taxis] but he’s never seen him so wound up from suggestion. Rocking, fully clothed, against a hand; his breathing stuttered gasps already and a staining of precum like an ink blot on his jeans.  
  
“That’s it baby. That’s so good, you do that for me,” He whispers, watching Harry unfurl with a fascinated tilt of his head, lips brushing over the boy’s hand. Kissing, but barely.  
  
Harry has tears brimming, lashes spiky from their wet spill and veins beneath the surface of his neck that Zayn almost sees his rushed heartbeat in. Sweat running in rivulets to collect in the hollows of his clavicle, collar bones; a sparkle of stars if Zayn squints. He leans in to slide his tongue against the taste of them. The taste of Harry: a musk that he’s familiar with; a scent that’s clung to him whenever Harry’s draped over him on stage. It’s shot through with arousal, but then it often is [and isn’t that a power trip].  
  
When Harry next moans, Zayn opens up his hand and gives him a firm squeeze. His erection, the meat of his inner thighs; a handful with his nails dug deep and his mouth skipping from Harry’s chest to his arm as Harry grinds into him at whatever angle he can. He nips at the papery skin of his inner elbow first, sharp to make Harry mewl and then noses further down- lapping at the film of perspiration. At his wrist he sucks a shadow, one that’ll purple in time, and at his hand, he bites again. Sinks his teeth into the taught skin between Harry’s thumb and index finger, as he’d been meaning to all along. Has to have his teeth drag over the cross before he lets him go.    
  
“Now, Harry baby, listen to me. Are you listenin’? Stop.”  
  
He’s shaking when he does, but Harry stills on command. Wound up all the way up again for a second and then liquid loose, he bows his head so that his face is hidden and splays his fingers against Zayn’s shoulders. Panting or sobbing, Zayn can’t be sure. Both would be satisfactory- the latter in way that makes Zayn twinge with guilt. It’s not that he wants to have hurt Harry- he wouldn’t, ever, any of his boys- but he wants to have lead him to some sort of release, if that’s what Harry had been baiting him towards. Misbehaving because he needed what came next.  
  
“Haz, can you hear me?” He asks the curtain of hair, taking care with each word. Speaking as if Harry’s a little something that’s likely to spook. “Can you look at me, so I can tell you what to do? You still want to do this, yes?”  
  
“ _Mhmm_. Want to learn my lesson,” Harry mumbles, lifting his neck to shake back his hair. Somehow regal, even in this moment, revealing slack red lips and burning cheeks.  
  
“Right,” Says Zayn, with a nod and swallow, “One simple rule, then. You’re not allowed to orgasm until I have. Until you’ve gotten me off, to clarify.”  
  
Harry is too close to his end point for comfort, Zayn knows- Harry probably could of come in his pants from Zayn’s grazing fist alone. He has faith though, that the boy will focus. The desire to please is easy to read in Harry’s submissive stare. The hungry little bob of his Adam’s Apple when Zayn rucks down his own sweat pants underwear, allowing his erection to slap up against his belly. Thick, dark and shiny at the head; Zayn more turned on by Harry’s  slipping under than he’d dared to let himself realise. His glassy eyes and the pull of trust between them.  
  
“Left hand, please, Harry.”  
  
“Left?”  
  
“Please.”  
  
Harry’s left hand is unsure- but _fuck_ , if it’s not perfect regardless: with that tattoo and the bruise from Zayn’s mouth showing on the underside of it’s wrist. The frustrated way in which Harry grunts, trying to right the stumbling drag of his palm over Zayn’s dick. It’s all clumsy, but still Zayn lifts from the couch- as much for the knot of impatience in Harrys frown as for the touch to his dick. The show of his hitching chest as it threatens a fresh wave of tears and the shaky way he blinks at the loose curls that sway down in front of his eyes. Each achingly desperate squeeze of Harry’s fingers and the wet sound as he thrusts into them.  
  
All of Harry, devastatingly undone in the lamplight.  
  
He comes when Harry lays in against him with a dizzy whimper. It’s the kiss of Harry’s tear-clumped lashes on his jaw and Harry’s ragged breathing at this neck. The thumb dipping into the fat pearl of moisture at the tip of his dick.  
  
“Oh my good boy, that’s my good boy,” Zayn exhales- threading his fingers through the younger boy’s hair; soothing his fingers against his scalp as his cock jumps and spurts his release over Harry’s hand. A perfect, pretty splatter of it obscuring his cross.  
  
When he is finally allowed, Harry climaxes with just the heel of Zayn’s palm at his still-clothed crotch. Hiding his sobbing in Zayn’s sweaty chest and clawing at his biceps. It feels like the first clap of thunder after a whole days worth of gathering storm clouds. Like being struck by the lightening, stood out in the rain. Most importantly, as though he earned it, did Zayn proud. What he’d been angling for since he first refused to pass over the joint and had instead, with some excitement, watched the way Zayn’s brow furrowed. The ticking behind his eyes.  
  
Zayn is all-knowing. Wise. Cuddling Harry as he drifts down from his high; letting him relish in being delicate. Like a baby bird that’s tumbled from his nest, he trembles, and Zayn blankets him in reassuring arms. He let’s him rest, just brushing his lips there, wiping sweat from here. Evening out his breathing so that Harry can mimic it and ease how raw his own is.  
  
“See, you know how to share now, huh?” He murmurs after some time- once the come has started to dry against their skin, when Zayn thinks that maybe they should head to the shower. A question to test how lucid Harry’s gotten.  
  
“Lesson learned,” Harry agrees, giving Zayn his dopiest grin of the night and nipping cheerfully at Zayn when he kisses it away, mumbling _brat_ up against his lips.


End file.
